January 227:30 p.m.

But my old friend Chuck, with an impish chuckle and
pretending it not by design but merely whim meeting
opportunity, put the Datsun into park in the parking lot of
the topless bar. "Flesh Goddess," proclaimed the unoriginal
neon sign. And what man can adamantly oppose such a venture
to a man he has not seen in five years, to a man he does not
know anymore, to a man who will interpret it as a prudish
judgment of his character, and perhaps rightly so, if he
says, "This is not my kind of place, Chuck." Or, "I do not
really belong here, Chuck." And how can he say this
truthfully if he has experienced only one or two strip clubs
in his life--those when he was fifteen? He can't really say
this truthfully, can he? I don't think so. And not when the
truth is that he avoids the scene because he fears the scene.
But fear? Fear? Not real fear. But that sweat across my
cold brow, that tightness in my swollen throat. That fear of
what the scene might mean, fear of how the scene might break
open something within me that might not then be shut,
something that maybe I won't want to shut. Forever then I
would be lost, you know, forever wayward, astray in my quest
for the spell of Chopin.

A similar dilemma once at a Catholic educator's
convention. New Orleans. Bourbon Street. My roommate: "Let's
see this live sex show." And, again, what could I say? It is
not in me to be the offended moralist. I said, "Sure." But
when he turned his back I cowardly dodged into a muffuletta
shop. I skulked away. I ducked down a side street, past a
hotdog vender, and onto another rue. I wanted to see the live
sex show. Yes! How I craved even to see it! But the place
in me that craved to see it was the place that I cannot obey.
It is my weakness the way alcohol may be another man's. Or
gambling another's. Or violence. Once you know these things
about yourself you know it best to avoid even a sip or a
lottery ticket or an untoward word. Because you cannot know
where the next step leads. Or you know too well. In that
way there is fear.

But Chuck was driving. And suddenly, impishly, he was
chuckling. And, sweat on my cold brow, tightness in my
swollen throat, I was treading past a very large bouncer and
through a long dark corridor and thinking to myself that in
this place the mystery would not be. Regardless, I was
prodded on by fate and circumstance.

And this is the proverbial male bonding! My first
encounter with it. It no longer seems such an absurd
concept. For something really does happen. The experience is
intensely male and it is shared. It happens in the bowels, in
the throat, in the coursing of the blood. And it cannot be
smothered. The bond comes from the two parties unavoidably
becoming equals, arriving at that common physical plane,
being strickled to their most primal maleness, and sharing,
in consequence, identical perspective, unison. I can
understand this fleeting communion strengthening or even
generating camaraderie between two men. For Chuck and me,
however, this did not occur. The communion, I think, has to
be built upon to create a lasting camaraderie. And our
communion was before these altars of nakedness and nowhere
else.

"Fascinating," he concluded profoundly at one point, "In
my opinion." He had just revealed to me his philosophy of
women. It was basically a list of oxymorons. The situation
demanded a nod from me. I nodded. I rejoined, "Everything
impossible is fascinating." And I repaired to my one beer and
continued my stream of thoughts on Hesse's Steppenwolf. A
highly inward and moral character there is haunted by the
lust and wantonness of his nights. He seems sometimes insane,
sometimes confused. In that setting, with me planted there
before those naked gyrating women, the book made perfect
sense to me. We all hide a wolf in us. I was feeding mine--
reluctantly. And the peanuts, I recalled. I recalled sitting
in a Tucson bar. Co-workers had cajoled me there. I
recalled eating peanuts continually as I drank glasses of
beer. I couldn't stop thinking about Goethe's Faust for some
reason. I couldn't stop eating the peanuts.

In the end there was little to fear. The dancers were
talent-less--thankfully. Only one of the ten I watched
mustered even a semblance of seduction. And still I think it
was her natural stage presence more than her dancing. The
rest were just naked women. Once the affect of their
nakedness wore off--A bore. The Bayadere ballet is much more
sensual, I think. They did play a song by Sheryl Crow
though.